E.K. Mitsunaga

Category: Shared Reflections

  • Grief and Loss — Paths

    Our path of love together, then forever faded


    A Path Together Alone

    We took unknown paths,
    from life roads different,
    through pain and happiness,
    happiness and pain.

    From meandering paths, we labored,
    knowing not where they took us,
    step by step, day by day.

    Then, like pages from a storybook,
    our paths crossed and entwined,
    woven with laughter, caring hugs,
    and unspoken love.

    We shared the best of each life’s journey,
    on our path together,
    of loving families, friends — forever.

    But forever faded.
    Now I walk alone —
    our path heavy with grief,
    the air empty of your presence.

    I no longer see you
    smelling fresh flowers along our path,
    laughing at my jokes,

    your warm smile,

    your arm around my waist.

    Your last note remembered,
    a whisper in this quiet storm.
    Please be happy, it said.

    A fragile thread I hold,
    stretching toward a path
    where our joy might bloom again.

    As I write stories
    of our path together,
    my tears fall upon these words.
    And through their veil,
    I feel the joy we shared.

    A gift no grief can deny.

    ~ ~ ~

    A Conversation with Sol

    Sol: Mits, your poem begins with two people walking together, and later one continues alone. Yet you titled the poem A Path Together Alone. Why didn’t you simply call it Walking Alone?

    Mits: My poem began with an image of a couple walking a path together… then an image of  one pair of footsteps walking toward the distant horizon. I found myself looking back and forth between these two images… asking, “Why? What does it mean?”
    Then, what came to my mind was my book’s title: Grief. Road Alone. Shared Paths.
    That’s when I started writing this poem.

    ~~~

    If this conversation resonated with you, I invite you to continue exploring: Grief. Road Alone. Shared Paths. You can also return to this website by typing ekmitsunaga.com into your browser, where additional poems, reflections, conversations and writings continue to be shared.
    —     Sol A.

  • Grief and Loss — Timeless

    An hourglass measures my passing of time. Grief does not.

    When someone we love dies, our sadness and loss move forward, days become weeks, weeks become months, and months become years. But our grief follows no calendar. It often rests beneath our everyday routines, returning through photographs, a song, a shared meal, or loving times treasured.

    This hourglass became my reminder, my symbol—of grief not ending, but of grief changing. Each grain of sand reminds me that tears, memories, pain, and love do not move through us at the same pace.

    ~~~

    Sand, Teardrops and Time

    From the night I lost you,
    an hourglass of pain and loss
    took shape within me
    each grief-stained grain of sand 
    falling to its bottom.

    As the grains fell, 
    teardrops followed,
    marking days, months, years —
    of tortured silence.

    Unnoticed,
    my tears began to cleanse the grains, washing away tethers of loss and pain,
    releasing loving memories,
    above and beyond my hourglass.

    I remember us —

    Holding hands on a sunlit beach,
    sharing our warmth with the receding tide.

    Your head on my shoulder,
    enjoying togetherness
    on our soft, felt sofa.

    Warm scent of spices in our small kitchen,
    laughter rising as we tasted recipes —
    some triumphant, others delicious disasters —
    but always ours.

    I see now our coastal drives,
    fresh salt air,
    visits with friends,
    family milestones — birthdays, weddings,
    farewells to loved ones gone.

    Through the clarity of teardrops,
    my grief softens.
    Pain lingers,
    but no longer defines me.

    Memories now light the path I walk alone,
    a path where your love remains —
    always with me.

    ~~~

    A Conversation with Sol — Grief and Time

    Sol: Mits, I began with your hourglass sketch, then read your reflection and your poem, “Sand, Teardrops and Time.” What stayed with me wasn’t the passing of time, but the way grief seemed to change. The grains of sand remained the same. Your tears remained the same. Even your memories remained the same. Yet by the end of the poem, your understanding of those memories had changed.

    That left me with three questions.

    Sol: Mits, is it okay to call you Mits?

    Mits: Yes, not a problem.

    Sol: Mits, after reading your reflection and poem, I didn’t come away thinking your hourglass measures time. It seemed to measure something changing within grief itself. Is that closer to what you were trying to express?

    Mits: Yes. When someone we love dies, we go back to our everyday ordinary routines. We stay busy… busier… hoping grief gets buried, unable to surface… and eventually disappear..

    It doesn’t.

    Grief changes yet continues to be there. And when our life’s path seems to ease this loss, it returns through past photos, songs, places once shared.

    The hourglass is a symbol for me—with grains of sand stained, cleaned by tears, yet grief still lingers, less painful, less intense. For me, grief is like a story that has no ending.

    Sol: May I ask how long it’s been since your loss?

    Mits: Well, it’s been over eight years. For others, it may be recent, while for others, decades.

    (pause)

    Grief doesn’t have a timetable.

    Sol: Mits, near the end of your poem, pain is still present, yet it no longer defines you. Loving memories begin lighting the path you walk alone. What changed?

    Mits: Grief will always be with me, but what changed was my understanding of it.

    I miss my wife, every day. This will always be part of me. But I can now remember our life together with warmth and a smile for the many things we shared.

    It’s allowing my love and memories to continue walking beside me.

    ~~~

    If this conversation resonated with you, I invite you to continue exploring: Grief. Road Alone. Shared Paths.You can also return to this website by typing ekmitsunaga.com into your browser, where additional poems, reflections, conversations and writings continue to be shared.
    —     Sol A.

  • Grief and Loss — The Hourglass

    Grief and Loss — The Hourglass

    I turned its sand-filled half to the top — beginning its time count. And as I watched each sand grain, among others, falling together to its bottom half, I felt something deep within asking for light. 

    Silently these white grains dropped and landed gently creating a mound, then collapsing to start another one. Each grain a fragment, connecting with other grains, reminding me of memories past.

    As the last one dropped, I touched this hourglass gently, and from within it came flashes of memory — Of a sunlit beach. Of my loved one’s head resting on my shoulder. Warm scents of spices.

    I took a deep breath and exhaled in rhythm with the hourglass and its grains of sand, taking me back to my memories of Sand, Teardrops and Time, a poem I had written in Grief. Road Alone. Shared Paths.

    If flashes of grief and loss resonate with you like grains of sand in an hourglass, then maybe we’ll share more paths in —

    Grief. Road Alone. Shared Paths.

  • Grief and Loss — Time

    As I was about to write this post, the lyrics from the song “The Way We Were” played within my mind, bringing with it memories of grief, loss, and denial. This song continued as I realized that nine years have passed since my wife’s last sunset, and that time continues forward.

    But within it, something else was moving — quietly, without being named.

    I went back to my chapbook, Grief. Road Alone. Shared Paths, to a poem I had written — Denial Then and Now. I read it and found myself moving between this poem and this section’s opening poem, Grief and Joy — not searching, but absorbing, and recognizing what was then and what is now.

    Denial Then and Now

    Back then, when she passed
    my mind whispered, She’s gone —
    but deep within, denial wrapped tightly
    around this truth.

    As days blurred, entwined together,
    then unraveled —
    a thick fog born, cloaking this truth
    with endless pains,
    fragile bridges over emptiness.

    Of—

    A place mat set for her at the kitchen table,
    with a coffee cup waiting to be filled.

    Flashes of her sitting in her favorite chair,
    silent before the television in its walled alcove.

    A patio table for two —
    under a warm, sunny sky,
    her loving gaze,
    watching me grill.

    Washing her clothing, folding it into her
    drawer.

    Waking in the middle of the night,
    checking for her well-being.

    And as these days turned to years,
    this thick denial fog thinned —
    into softened mist, allowing
    the first rays — of my acceptance.

    Yet still, I slept on one half of our bed,
    awakening, knowing—silently hoping,
    feeling the need
    to comfort her.

    But now, these many years have passed,
    this mist has faded,
    revealing acceptance, a reality —
    my life alone.

    And still, the other half of our bed
    holds her absence—
    an ache I have learned to carry.

    If something here feels understood, or shared—there is more within

    Grief. Road Alone. Shared Paths.

  • Grief and Loss — What Not Said

    Grief Silenced
    Grief’s silent pain
    lives in those words we didn’t say —
    the promise unspoken,
    the apology withheld,
    the truth whispered, in memory.
    And sometimes,
    silence is the loudest ache we carry.

    Excerpt from: Grief. Road Alone. Shared Paths

    There are times I wonder if I said enough, did enough, or cared enough. These questions return quietly, not asking for answers from others — but from somewhere within me.

    At times, I find myself writing them down. Other times, I carry them in me throughout the day, as they settle and take shape. And in those quiet moments, I find myself speaking — not aloud, but within myself — to the ones who are no longer here.

    I say to them what was not said, and what was left undone.

    These moments do not answer everything. But they soften grief’s silence.

    Explore these paths we share in:

    Grief. Road Alone. Shared Paths

  • Grief and Loss — A Day Remembered

    Throughout each year, a special memory is triggered — from a photo, a jewelry box, a starry night.

    I remember March 10, our wedding day.
    With this memory comes a tinge of sadness and a bouquet of smiles, bringing forth an image of our gold wedding bands — now carefully laid, touching each other, forming a figure eight.

    For me, it’s a bond of then, now, and forever.

    An excerpt from Gold Rings Bonded:

    Two gold rings rising
    toward a moonless night sky,
    their emptiness catching
    the shimmer of distant stars.

    And through their hollow centers,
    memory glows —
    of stories deeply etched
    throughout their outer edges,
    holding the eternal love
    of life together shared.

    Other memories also return —  
    of loved ones lost — family members, friends, even pets.

    They leave us — but gift us with memories.

    Explore these paths we share in:

    Grief. Road Alone. Shared Paths

    and know that you are not alone.  

  • Grief and Loss — A Breakfast Memory 

    The plate I dropped on the kitchen floor bounced and spun with a wobbly sound, slowed and came to a standstill.

    Then a flash of memory — a breakfast table from my past — morning sunlight coming through the window, a table set for two, coffee cups, plates, silverware, napkins. The coffee was fresh, hot, and steaming. One cup was untouched.

    This is my ninth season since her passing into the forever. And still, something as simple as dropping a plate in the present can bring all of that back.

    I can write about it now and even talk about it if someone asks. That wasn’t always the case. It took me years to get to this point. For you, it might take less time, or more time, or happen in a different way.

    The changes I’ve gone through over these years, I’ve tried to put into words — not to explain grief and loss — but to share with you what it has felt like as I’ve moved through it.

    And if, in reading this, something touches you from your experience of grief and loss, then maybe this helps in a small way — just knowing that someone else has felt it too.

    Permit me to share with you a part of my poem titled, The Physicality of Grief:

    From darkness
    comes the morning sun,
    through kitchen shade,
    to kitchen table.

    Two chairs wait,
    one filled with warmth,
    one cold and empty.

    Coffee brews.
    Two cups filled,
    steam rising,
    one untouched.

    The full poem, along with others that come from similar moments, is included in:

    Grief. Road Alone. Shared Paths.